


Sundays

by HydraNoMago



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred/Arthur - Freeform, Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Human AU, Hurt, M/M, Oneshot, Sickness, Sundays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9209492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HydraNoMago/pseuds/HydraNoMago
Summary: Alfred loves Sundays.Sundays are the most special days of the week; he reserves everything special to be done on Sundays. And that includes spending his whole day with the one he loves, Arthur Kirkland.





	

* * *

 

He loves Sundays the most.

Mondays are the days for blues; Tuesdays for being swamped with work; Wednesdays as hump days; Thursdays are waiting days; Fridays are off-work days; Saturdays are house-work days.

So yes, Sundays are his favourite. Sundays are the only days when he can literally sit back and relax in the comfort of his own home, the only days when work and the constant need to pay bills would not be on his mind. He could worry about that during the other days.

Sundays were the days when he could have long visits with Arthur.

That doesn't mean that he couldn't visit the green-eyed blond any other day. Of course he could, and he did. But during all the other days he was busy trying to earn enough to keep afloat, barely having enough time to complete all his work and have a decent meal. During the other days, he only had a few hours maximum left to spare for Arthur, which was not much time indeed. It was, unfortunately, only Sundays when he could spend the whole day with him.

If he had a choice, he would spend all his days, all his hours, all his minutes, seconds and milliseconds with the one he loves. Alas, fate liked to deal him cruel hands. He never had a choice in the first place. Not even having the choice to choose whom he had to fall for, but that is a selection which he never regretted.

Oh well, when life gives you lemons, you just have to find a way to make lemonade. Even if you don't have a blender. Speaking of which, he needed to clear out his storage room soon. Years and years of junk laid in piles, some utterly useless, some still functional, in that old room. Junk laid there with memories. Memories of yore, memories which he cherished more than anything else in this world.

He pulled the iron across his shirt, making sure that it was ironed till crisp and warm. Usually he didn't care for such trivialities, but just because it was Sunday. His mom used to tell him to always dress in his Sunday best during Sundays, because it was a special day. The most special of all the days of the week. So he would always pair a crisp shirt with a pair of nice slacks and his good shoes. Arthur used to tease him about it a lot, said that Sundays were the only days when he would agree to dress more gentlemanly.

In a way, it was true. He reserved the special outfits, the special ice-creams, the special movies, the special hugs, the special kisses for Sundays, because these special things deserve to be done on a special day.

He checked himself in the small mirror, running hands through his hair, trying to keep his cowlick down but to no avail. As usual. He notices things which he hardly notices during Sundays. The dark, puffy eye bags which have formed, the tired looking blue orbs, the dulled colour of his wheat-gold hair, sometimes the presence of fine whiskers on his chin, the rounded shoulders. The overall haggardness of his face and stance.

In a moment though, he would pull himself together again. He would ignore the deficiencies on his skin, straighten his back and set upon his lips the brightest smile he could conjure, because Sundays are special days. And he needed to be, or at least act, like he was okay. Slipping on his glasses and forgoing the bow-tie (again), he tucked his feet into his Sunday shoes, locked his front door, waved to his neighbour and set off on his bicycle.

Like every Sunday, he would stop by the florist's near the cul-de-sac to purchase some flowers. Daisies, hydrangeas, lilies, bluebells, orchids, lavender, cosmos. You name it, Toris the florist has it. Toris has not one green thumb, but two, which makes him an ideal florist. Any flower could bloom beneath his tender touch.

Today, he was in luck. Toris brought out a display of the reddest roses he had ever seen. They were of the Tudor type, said florist mentioned. "Quite expensive due to their demand, but I'll let you have them for half the price." He stared at Toris bewildered for a moment. "I know how much you like to buy roses for him. He likes the red Tudor ones, yes?" At this he brightened up even more, bought all the roses, thanked Toris and set off for his destination once more.

After half a mile, he could see an ancient-looking building loom up into view. It was surrounded by grassy hedges and tall trees which provided shade. White picket fences lined the front, sides and back of the house, forming a small barrier from the outside world. He greeted the guard at the door as he did every day and was let in. Pushing his metal horse upon the gravel path, he took in the peaceful scenery as best as he could. A fountain was placed in the middle of a garden full of flowers and butterflies, a bench and a table sat underneath an oak tree, a cat meowed at him while curling up on a wall.

Briefly, he wondered if the faeries Arthur always mentions are flitting about somewhere, probably disguised as the butterflies. If they were here with him, he wondered if they would help grant him the courage to continue this lifestyle.

He parked his bicycle by leaning it on a stone wall not far from the entrance. No lock was needed, for not a soul here would want his bicycle anyway. He knocked on the mahogany door of the house and was swiftly granted entrance.

The inside of the house was comforting. Rugs laid out on the floor; beautiful watercolours hanging from the walls; vases of fresh flowers from the garden; bookshelves of books, board games, DVDs; a quaint mantlepiece. Everything in the house brought a sense of peace and a warm sense of nostalgia. The place suited Arthur well.

"Oh, hello Alfred. Are you here to see him again today?"

He spun around and came face to face with Rachel, one of the younger nurses. "Mornin'. And yeah, I'm here again today." He smiled as best as he could. "Is he well today?"

Rachel returned his smile and nodded. "He's doing much better today. Probably because it's so sunny outside in a long time."

"I know, October rains really gets to me too."

The nurse gave a small chuckle. "He misses the sun as much as he misses you."

The edges of his mouth twitched downward, but he didn't let his smile diminish. "Yeah, I know."

At this, the nurse gave him a pat on the back and left him to his own devices. He found Arthur sitting in a worn armchair, the one he always occupied. Instead of sulkily reading his novels, he was looking out of the window today. Enjoying the scenery perhaps?

Alfred let himself fall into the armchair opposite, startling the other blond momentarily. "Morning. How are you doin' today, good sir?"

Arthur looked at the newcomer skeptically before answering. "I am fine, thank you for asking. May I know whom you are and why have you sat here?" There was an edge to his tone.

"What, am I not supposed to sit here or something?" teased the American.

Arthur looked bashful as he blushed and turned his gaze away. "Not at all, it's just that... well, I'm not used to strangers starting up a conversation with me."

"Me neither. But that's the fun of it isn't it? Getting to know someone new." He did feel a little hurt, but he was mostly used to it by now.

Green eyes still looked uncertain, hesitant. "I suppose so. Does this stranger have a name?"

"Oops! Where are my manners?" feigned Alfred with mirth. "The name's Alfred F. Jones, truest, bluest American around!"

A small smile crept up onto Arthur's lips. "Pleasure to meet you Alfred. My name is Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"I know," he sighed somewhat.

The Brit looked suspiciously at him. "Excuse me?" he asked incredulously.

Alfred smiled broadly. "It's just that you look like an 'Arthur', yanno? With your charming British accent and all."

At this, green eyes relaxed slightly. "How stereotypical of you." He cast another look at the newfound stranger sitting opposite him. "I have a feeling we are going to be friends at least."

Alfred laughed, notes clear and high. "I have a feeling that we'll be really good friends."

* * *

 

"How do you manage it Alfred?"

Alfred was just about to step out the door. He had a wonderful day with Arthur today, just talking about everything and nothing at the same time. The other blond had retired to his room for the day.

Tomorrow, Arthur would forget all about him again. Tomorrow, he would be a stranger to the one he loves once more. Tomorrow, everything resets.

He turned a bit wearily to Rachel. To be honest, it hurt. It hurt having to reintroduce himself every time he came here, it hurt seeing the way Arthur looked at him with guarded eyes, it hurt repeating what he says every day, it hurt knowing that Arthur could never remember him for more than 24 hours, it hurt knowing that there wasn't any cure for the disease known as Alzheimer's.

It hurt, but...

"You know what Rachel? Sometimes I think I'm going to break down from all the stress, from all the pressure I get. But then I think of him, I think of Arthur, the one person whom I truly love and I manage to gain back my strength to carry on."

The nurse cast him a sad smile. "You truly love him, don't you?"

"That's because he's like Sundays to me. He's special."

* * *

 


End file.
